The Collected Stories

can I deceive all the world?” I asked him.
    He answered, “You might accumulate a bucket of urine every day and at night pour it into the dough. Let the sages of Frampol eat filth.”
    “What about the judgement in the world to come?” I said.
    “There is no world to come,” he said. “They’ve sold you a bill of goods and talked you into believing you carried a cat in your belly. What nonsense!”
    “Well then,” I said, “and is there a God?”
    He answered, “There is no God either.”
    “What,” I said, “
is
there, then?”
    “A thick mire.”
    He stood before my eyes with a goatish beard and horn, long-toothed, and with a tail. Hearing such words, I wanted to snatch him by the tail, but I tumbled from the flour sacks and nearly broke a rib. Then it happened that I had to answer the call of nature, and, passing, I saw the risen dough, which seemed to say to me, “Do it!” In brief, I let myself be persuaded.
    At dawn the apprentice came. We kneaded the bread, scattered caraway seeds on it, and set it to bake. Then the apprentice went away, and I was left sitting in the little trench by the oven, on a pile of rags. Well, Gimpel, I thought, you’ve revenged yourself on them for all the shame they’ve put on you. Outside the frost glittered, but it was warm beside the oven. The flames heated my face. I bent my head and fell into a doze.
    I saw in a dream, at once, Elka in her shroud. She called to me, “What have you done, Gimpel?”
    I said to her, “It’s all your fault,” and started to cry.
    “You fool!” she said. “You fool! Because I was false is everything false too? I never deceived anyone but myself. I’m paying for it all, Gimpel. They spare you nothing here.”
    I looked at her face. It was black; I was startled and waked, and remained sitting dumb. I sensed that everything hung in the balance. A false step now and I’d lose eternal life. But God gave me His help. I seized the long shovel and took out the loaves, carried them into the yard, and started to dig a hole in the frozen earth.
    My apprentice came back as I was doing it. “What are you doing boss?” he said, and grew pale as a corpse.
    “I know what I’m doing,” I said, and I buried it all before his very eyes.
    Then I went home, took my hoard from its hiding place, and divided it among the children. “I saw your mother tonight,” I said. “She’s turning black, poor thing.”
    They were so astounded they couldn’t speak a word.
    “Be well,” I said, “and forget that such a one as Gimpel ever existed.” I put on my short coat, a pair of boots, took the bag that held my prayer shawl in one hand, my stock in the other, and kissed the mezuzah. When people saw me in the street they were greatly surprised.
    “Where are you going?” they said.
    I answered, “Into the world.” And so I departed from Frampol.
    I wandered over the land, and good people did not neglect me. After many years I became old and white; I heard a great deal, many lies and falsehoods, but the longer I lived the more I understood that there were really no lies. Whatever doesn’t really happen is dreamed at night. It happens to one if it doesn’t happen to another, tomorrow if not today, or a century hence if not next year. What difference can it make? Often I heard tales of which I said, “Now this is a thing that cannot happen.” But before a year had elapsed I heard that it actually had come to pass somewhere.
    Going from place to place, eating at strange tables, it often happens that I spin yarns—improbable things that could never have happened—about devils, magicians, windmills, and the like. The children run after me, calling, “Grandfather, tell us a story.” Sometimes they ask for particular stories, and I try to please them. A fat young boy once said to me, “Grandfather, it’s the same story you told us before.” The little rogue, he was right.
    So it is with dreams too. It is many years since I left Frampol, but as soon as I shut my eyes I am there again. And whom do you think I see? Elka. She is standing by the washtub, as at our first encounter, but her face is shining and her eyes are as radiant as the eyes of a saint, and she speaks outlandish words to me, strange things. When I wake I have forgotten it all. But while the dream lasts I am comforted. She answers all my queries, and what comes out is that all is right. I weep and implore, “Let me be with you.” And she consoles me and tells me to be